Free UNDER A CHRISTMAS SPELL by Barbara Monajem Page B

an opposite way—a constant need to be with people, to be up and doing.
    “He shows no interest in women. He will not even take a mistress,” her hostess said. “And no, he doesn’t prefer men, nor was he wounded and incapacitated. His is an emotional problem that must be resolved, and you, my dear, can arouse even the most difficult cases. Think of it as a way to use your talents in a peaceful cause.”
    It would be a challenge. It might occupy her mind for a while. Maybe it would help her to forget. But she could never be forgiven, and that was what mattered most.
    “The peerage is far too full of substandard fools,” the mistress said. “For the future of England, one cannot let even one intelligent nobleman refuse to marry and carry on his lineage.” She passed Lucille a scented envelope. “Here are the particulars. It has come to our attention that Lord Westerly’s aunt is planning a fortnight of Christmas festivities at his Hampshire estate. You will doubtless find a way to attend.”
    An English country Christmas! During her childhood, Lucille had spent several years with an English family. Holly and mistletoe, plum pudding and roast goose... She sat back in her chair and sipped her tea. Perhaps some aspects of this mission would be fun.
    Hampshire , a few weeks later
    Shortly before dusk on the twenty-third of December, Lord Valiant Oakenhurst rode into a copse a short distance from Westerly House. He hadn’t done what he was about to do in ages, and the last time he’d been lucky not to kill himself in the process.
    This time he was slightly better prepared. He wouldn’t ruin good clothes in the process, because this was England, not wartime France, so he didn’t need perfect cover. Today he had purposely chosen a threadbare shirt and a too large coat he wouldn’t have given to a groom. He took out two cravats and set them conveniently ready for use.
    Then he removed a loaded pistol from his saddlebag, took very, very careful aim, and shot himself in the arm.
    Hell! It was only a scratch, but it hurt as badly as last time. His horse, formerly a cavalry mount, must have forgotten its training, for it took exception to the sudden noise, snorting and sidling, and almost unseated Valiant against a tree. Cursing, he got it under control, barely preventing the cravats from slipping to the ground. He shed his ruined coat, wound the cloths about his arm and tied them as tight as he could with his free hand and his teeth. He was still bleeding, but it would have to do.
    He wheeled his horse and set out for Westerly House.
    * * *
    As dusk fell, a coach-and-pair carrying Lucille Beaulieu and her new friend, Theodora Southern, turned through the gates of Westerly House and slogged slowly up the drive.
    It had been all too easy to arrange. One look at the guest list the mistress had supplied her, and she’d known whom to choose. She and Theodora moved in different circles, but occasionally they had attended the same ball in London. A carriage breakdown before the gates of the vicarage where Theodora lived with her parents and a fault in the axle that would take more than a week to fix—an obvious ploy to anyone in the game—was all it took. The Southerns wouldn’t have dreamed of turning a stranded gentlewoman away, and Theodora was far too polite to admit that she didn’t remember meeting Lucille. She had succumbed readily, allowing acquaintance to become friendship, and had even seemed pleased when Lucille suggested accompanying her to the house party. The ease of it, which would have been a relief during the war, now made Lucille rather sick.
    She tried to concentrate on the positive aspects of this journey. Every country house had its traditions. Perhaps the ladies would accompany the gentlemen into a wood to fetch the Yule log. They might assist in delivering gifts of food to the tenants on Lord Westerly’s estate. She longed for the comfort of traditions. Of family life, which she had never truly known.